Chapter 3 - Tryouts

Tribune Whitefeather sat with his fellow members of the Office of Targeted Extractions, Sub-Decurion Chan and Major MacAllistor, in the Arctic Princess pod currently assigned to Sandy Hause and her camerawoman, Lyn MacDonald. The three Confederacy officers were enjoying lunch and watching the results of Sandy's editing efforts. All wore their dress uniforms, Whitefeather and Chan in Civil Service grey and MacAllistor in Marine green. The two concubines wore fancy hairdos and gold-threaded high heels. Lyn wore a pair of nipple rings, and from Sandy's belly-button a fancy bejewelled decoration caught the light. Other than that, both ladies were quite nude.

To avoid concentrating on her dress, or rather lack of dress, Sandy paid more attention to her editing job. Lyn concentrated on the tasty Beef Wellington with a side of asparagus, all complemented by an excellent Madeira.

"An excellent report,” the gruff Major conceded as the brief film ended. “Doesn't give away a thing, yet lets the viewer know what procedures to expect during a pickup. I like how you even introduced a section on recommendations for choosing a pre-pack.”

"Thank you, Sir,” Sandy said politely, if nervously.

"No, I'm serious. I was quite surprised by the quality, especially from a small market TV station like yours.” The major masticated another bite of his Beef Wellington and almost daintily dabbed at a flake of pastry at the corner of his mouth. Lyn was fascinated at how the two-metre-tall mountain of muscle could carry it off so gracefully.

"Sandy's not really as much of a twit as everyone assumes,” Lyn advised the giant Marine. “She's not being an idiot savant – she can take the video equivalent of a sow's ear into an editing booth and come back with a silk purse that Yves Saint Laurent would be proud to claim as his own design. She also has a killer nose for a good story.” Lyn shrugged. “She's just ... naive, I guess.”

"I'm not naive.” Sandy could have kicked Lyn, but fortunately Tribune Whitefeather at the start of the meal had placed himself between the two ladies – pulling rank to do so.

The men merely smiled as Lyn contradicted her. “And who thought the pick-up was just a re-enactment for the camera?” Lyn demanded.

Sandy pondered glumly for a moment before conceding with a scowl, “OK, so I'm naive.” Aggressively, she pointed her finger at her partner. “But I'm not dumb!” She then turned to Tribune Whitefeather, turning on her most winning smile and completely forgetting her attire. “So, tell me all about this big pick-up tonight.”

Whitefeather dragged his eyes up from her delightful breasts, whose oscillations were just beginning to tamp down. “Well, I did promise that story, didn't I? And it's one thing that we in the Office of Targeted Extractions are particularly looking forward to. If it works out, it'll be the largest targeted extraction the Confederacy has done to date.”

"What's the Office of Targeted Extractions?” Sandy demanded.

"Oh, right, you wouldn't know about that. Normally, an extraction consists of putting up a large protective screen called a 'containment field' around a suitably large number of potential volunteers and potential concubines, let the volunteers, well, volunteer, and then choose their harems from the pool of available concubine candidates. You're at least somewhat familiar with that?”

Sandy and Lyn nodded, fascinated.

"It usually works well enough, but often we find that the colonies out there need people with specialized skills. And that's where Targeted Extractions comes in. We find people with those skills, regardless of CAP score, extract them and send them to the colonies where their skills can prove useful. We're even prepared to fill skill requests with people who are dependant-aged, if necessary.” He lifted the decanter of Madeira. “More wine?”

"So what kinds of people are you looking for?” Sandy demanded as she moved her glass to within easy pouring range.

"Teachers are always desirable. So are construction engineer types, anyone experienced in commercial distribution planning, design of manufacturing plants, nursing, childcare, agriculture – especially anyone in the research end like biologists, that sort of thing. One request we have right now is for a reporter, believe it or not, from the very colony we're sending tonight's extractees to. You'll be able to send reports literally from pickup here to arrival at the destination.”

"Oh.” Sandy blinked in surprise. She'd been targeted?

"The colony is on an ice planet called Thule. It's some ways from here, home of the 12^th Brigade, the 'Chosen Frozen' they call themselves, and their support fleet, Task Force 12. A brigade is about 5,000 or more strong, depending on such factors as required support and combat casualties. This extraction will nudge them up to Divisional strength, which is about three brigades.”

Sandy whistled in wonder. “That's quite the nudge.”

Lyn interrupted at that point. “So Sandy was targeted. What was I, collateral damage?”

"A happy accident,” Whitefeather nodded agreeably. He took a swig of the Madeira.

"So Sandy gets to be a reporter. What about me?”

"Like all concubines, you'll pop out babies, but other than that it's up to your eventual sponsor and the senior Civil Service officer on the planet. She's quite keen to utilize concubines' talents as much as possible. I think you'll like her.”

Lyn blinked. “How soon does all this happen?”

The other two men grinned as the big Civil Service officer cheerily advised her, “Your first child will pop out in about 275 days.”

"Oh?” Lyn raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And I suppose you even know what it'll be?”

"No, it's far too soon for that, but it'll be a girl.”

"What do you mean, 'it's too soon to know, but it'll be a girl'?” Lyn was thoroughly confused.

"We won't know if she'll be a sponsor until much closer to her fourteenth birthday,” Whitefeather supplied.

Sandy began doing mental math. “Average gestation is 40 weeks, right?”

"Right,” Whitefeather confirmed happily.

"And that works out to 280 days, right?”

As Tribune Whitefeather nodded affably, Lyn's face became a visage of horror. “That means... I'm pregnant?”

"Yes, my dear, you enjoyed a very wonderful weekend. Congratulations!”

A very startled Lyn proceeded to bolt down the rest of her drink.

"Ah, finished?” Whitefeather eyed the two girls' plates. Everyone was now ready for dessert and coffee.

The dessert was cool, and tangy, and sweet. The frothy, light-coloured pudding was topped with wedges of oranges.

"Oh, that looks yummy,” gushed Lyn as Sub-Decurion Chan gallantly scooped some into a small crystal bowl. “What is it?”

"It's a traditional orange fool,” Major MacAllistor informed her, “keeping with the English theme of the meal. Trifle sponge cake, topped by whipped creme that has been infused with the juice of oranges and a lemon.”

Sandy looked at the tall Marine dubiously as Anthony placed the dessert in front of her. “A fool? In honour of me?” she asked worriedly.

Whitefeather merely grinned wickedly as he filled up the coffee cups from a sterling silver pot.

"All right, then, on with the tale of how we managed to target two brigades' worth of manpower for one night's extraction,” Whitefeather announced as he settled down into his seat. “It all started back in February of this year. This sort of thing just is not done overnight.”

FEBRUARY

The night was cold, but not terribly. The lanky young man of Chinese descent walking into the low office building wore a pea-jacket over a checked flannel work shirt and dark black jeans. A rucksack was slung over his shoulder. Pausing just inside the ground-floor office's entryway to brush the parking lot's snow off his boots and shove his knitted cap into his coat pocket, he looked around. He was expected.

The President of the youth league greeted him and, after placing the young man's coat into the reception area's closet, led the younger man into a boardroom near the back of the office. Inside, eight other individuals sat around the oak table in fancy but far from comfortable leather chairs. He indicated that the visitor should have the honour of sitting at one of the two places at the head of the table, and introduced him to the members of the Board.

"Thank you, gentlemen. My name is Anthony Chan.” He took from his rucksack nine little electronic devices and handed them out to the nine men around him. Within a moment, all were in an hypnotic trance. When they shrugged themselves awake, Chan said one word.

"Abercrombie.”

The Board answered as one: “Havelock.”

The countersign was carefully chosen: most would have associated the first word with the second name of the clothing chain, but only the most passionate fan of British military history would have identified the two names as Royal Navy monitors from the First World War.

"I will remind you of your post-hypnotic instructions. You will only talk about the details of tonight's meeting with those who can give the countersign. Nobody else – not even Marines in battle armour. Understand?”

There was a very reluctant nod of assent.

"All AA-level coaches are to have a CAP score of at least 6.5.” He pronounced it, “double-a”.

All nodded obediently.

"When the coaches are finalized for next year's teams, you will have a special meeting of all the AA-level coaches and their staff.”

All nodded obediently.

"It is to be mandatory for all coaches, assistant coaches, trainers and managers to attend. If they do not, then they will not be permitted to be members of the coaching staff.”

All nodded obediently.

"You will invite a representative of my firm to attend this meeting.”

All nodded obediently.

"You will schedule all AA teams to have at least one game per week for the same night: Thursday. The other AA game of the week can be any other night, but every AA team will have a Thursday night game.”

All nodded obediently.

"At those arenas where the AA-level teams are playing, no other level will be playing on Thursday night. Wherever possible, you will have all four games at the AA level. If that is not possible, you will leave the ice empty for the final game.”

All nodded obediently.

"Raglan,” the Sub-Decurion uttered.

"Roberts,” the Board responded, again as one.

The rest of the meeting was devoted to his cover, a salesman representing a firm that offered customized first aid kits that included as an added bonus, tools for repairing sporting equipment. The firm existed; the son of the chairman of the board of directors had sent a message from his duty station aboard CSS Stockholm, asking for a little favour that the father was more than happy to grant.

Exactly similar meetings to this one had already happened, or would be happening, repeatedly around the world.

APRIL

In city after city across the northern climes, league after league prepared to hold their special AA coach meetings, in that first week of April. Every league would be holding tryouts later that month to select the teams that would be in competitive levels come September.

Typically, the meetings were held at arenas, but some leagues managed to borrow school auditoriums, church social halls or other large venues. Where necessary, the Confederacy supplied moral suasion behind the scenes.

In Edmonton, the meeting was held at a community centre that, in addition to a pad of ice, held a hall with a stage. At a nearby coffee house, two figures sat, reviewing their plan of attack for the night: Tribune William Whitefeather and the Captain of the K'treel Class explorer ship, CSS Sir Francis Drake, Fleet Auxiliary Lieutenant Susan Dewitt. Both were in civilian garb, to try to blend in. As Susan was a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with hair halfway down her back and William had taken the standard Marine package, it wasn't easy. The glasses they both wore – hers a stylish bluish-pink, his half-frame readers perched on the end of his nose – helped, as everyone knew that nobody in the Confederacy required vision correction. That the frames held non-prescription lenses, nobody needed to know.

Enough of their conversation was oral so as to further fool others into believing that they were work colleagues. The critical parts, though, were subvocal.

"I'm nervous about this meeting,” Sue confessed. “Getting up and talking in front of a large audience is not something I'm comfortable with.” Subvocally, she added, 'I'm used to addressing my own crew, but I know all of them.'

"Ah, well, do what I do.”

She knew Whitefeather well. She cocked an eyebrow sceptically.

"Imagine them wearing clothes.”

Sue snickered. 'You've been giving the standard concubine lecture too often,' she subvocally accused.

He nodded. She'd relaxed a bit, as he'd intended.

'It's the deception part more than anything else that is making me nervous. I hope I can pull it off.'

Whitefeather pondered for a moment. 'If it's any consolation, you won't be doing the deception, we will. You just need to stand up and deliver your lines, as we practised. If you forget, the AI will prompt you.' He reminded himself again that the young woman in front of him, despite looking 28, was really 17. She was young enough to be his daughter, he reflected. Sue came from Oregon and had no known First Nations blood in her, so he considered that relationship to be unlikely. Plus he thought he had a handle on those ladies he'd had dalliances with before his pickup, and as far as he knew the only issue he had were those conceived since then.

As they stood up to leave for the meeting, William added, “Remember, you aren't selling anything. We've already done that. You're just laying out the product specifications. Just do the presentation as you did for Anthony and me, and you'll be fine. OK?”

Sue nodded nervously, but resolutely started walking toward the coffee shop entrance. On her way out, she dumped the cardboard cup into the recycler. She still could vaguely remember a time when that would have been a garbage can.

As they arrived at the community centre, the coaches, assistant coaches, team managers and trainers were being checked off against the approved list provided by the youth hockey league. To have enough staff, Whitefeather had borrowed Navy and Fleet Auxiliary ratings from almost every ship currently in orbit, and at that felt somewhat short-handed. Each member of the coaching staff was directed to a dressing room where, they were told, they would be provided with an information kit and supplies. That the supplies would include a nanite load to back up the post-hypnotic suggestion from the neuralizer was not considered worthwhile mentioning. Nor was the fact that each dressing room contained one large Marine – he or she would be in civvies, anyway.

In the community hall itself, with all coaching staff in attendance, Susan Dewitt began her presentation.

"Abercrombie.”

The entire room erupted in a mass shout of, “Havelock!”

"Ladies and gentlemen, you have in front of you your presentation kits. In addition to the forms required by the League, including the player registration cards, you have this cute little device.” She held up a device that resembled a garage door opener. “Could you please hold yours up now.”

Everybody reached into the canvas bags they'd been provided, which was affixed with the league's logo. Within minutes, everyone was hefting the small device into the air.

"It is now registered with your DNA. Do not let anyone else handle this – it will self-destruct. It won't explode, but it will get sufficiently hot as to force the miscreant to drop it.” It would also send out an electronic cry to the Confederacy ships above, which would launch an immediate investigation by the Confederacy Provost Marshal. “It will scan the individual you point this at, and if their CAP score is at least 6.5, the green light will go on.”

Sue had been a trifle economical in her description of how the device worked. It scanned for a CAP card, confirmed that the card was in the possession of the individual so named, and then activated the correct colour. If the individual did not have their CAP card with them, the scanner would indicate “yellow” - but then anyone with a positive CAP score should be carrying their card with them at all times, unless they really didn't want to be extracted. If the person had someone else's CAP card on them, the person in question could expect a visit from the Provost Marshal. Stolen or not, he'd have some explaining to do.

Excitedly, the staff pointed the devices at each other. The room was soon filled with tiny points of green light.

"If you point it at someone who scored less than 6.5, it will glow red. If you point it at someone who is unscored, like anyone under 14, it will glow yellow.” Sue paused to subvocally review the next part of her presentation.

"These will continue to function only until you've finished picking your teams. They are programmed to destroy themselves the end of this month, if you haven't deposited them into a recycler first.”

Command had been terribly concerned that such a device would prove quite useful to Earth First in identifying targets. They had insisted on the safety precautions before allowing the little scanners into production. It contained the barest minimum programming and, even if opened, could not be duplicated by Earth technology. All replicators on Earth were specifically forbidden from creating so much as a single copy of the device.

"If you look at the scanners, you will now see your name and your team name inscribed on it.”

Each team official noted that, as predicted, their name and team were emblazoned above the indicator light. On the back of the device was their team's logo.

"You will choose your players as follows: for those in the Minor Bantam and below, they need at least one parent with a CAP score of at least 6.5. For anyone from Minor Bantam up, they themselves need to score at least 6.5. You'd like them all to be AA-level players, but the positive CAP score is a definite need – without being either a sponsor-level adult or a sponsor-level adult's dependant, they're not on the team. You get seventeen players, more for the older teams, and we strongly suggest you fill up your entire team rosters.”

This next part was critical. “You will encourage all of your players' parents to attend all Thursday night games, regardless of venue. You will encourage all potential sponsors to get a pre-pack in place. You will encourage them to bring the pre-pack with them to all Thursday night games. If you have a player who is injured or suspended, they still are expected to be at the Thursday night game, with parents and pre-pack.”

She took a breath in. So far so good, but now came the unscripted part. “Any questions?”

Inevitably there were a few, answers to which were fed to her subvocally by either Tribune Whitefeather or the AI.

"Yes,” came a voice from the middle of the audience. “Well, you see, I'm ... I'm colourblind. I can't tell what colour it is.”

'Take him to Dressing Room One,' whispered the AI. 'There is a transporter nexus there. Tribune William Whitefeather has authorized medical tube treatment aboard CSS Florence Nightingale.'

"See me afterwards,” she advised laconically.

"What about call-ups?” asked another coach.

'What's a call-up?' begged Sue.

Whitefeather answered before the AI could dredge the information out of its network of electronic friends. 'Oh, fuck,' he said calmly. 'Every one of these teams represented here will be affiliated to another team, probably an A-level team in the same age group from the same arena. If they're short players due to injury, illness or another commitment, they can call up replacements from that affiliated team. And you can bet they won't be officially affiliated until after the April tryouts are well over. The A-level aren't getting this attention, so if there are call-ups we could have families at pick-up who haven't got a sponsor in sight.' He paused. 'For now, tell them we'll deal with that later.'

None of the coaching staff were idiots. All had long ago clued in that an extraction was being plotted – a big one. And all now shared the same concern that Tribune Whitefeather had just expressed.

"We will be dealing with that in the near future, after affiliate teams are officially chosen. For now, remember that you are forbidden from talking about the ramifications of this meeting. You cannot suggest to the coaches of your potential affiliates that they choose for CAP scores.”

AUGUST

At rink after rink through the second half of August, the story was the same. On ice, the team was practising, supervised by the coach and his assistant. In the stands, the trainer and manager were interviewing parents, using neuralizers on the sponsor-class among them, instructing them to assemble their pre-packs and attend every Thursday game with every member of the pre-pack. Get there early. Stay there through the evening. Start with the first game in September.

Meanwhile, the Confederacy AI's were going through the rosters of every team affiliated with those teams involved in Operation Bawdy Check. They would provide the coaches of the AA-level teams with a list of acceptable call-ups.

NOVEMBER

From across the Diaspora, Kilo-class transports began arriving in ones and twos. All were named “Clipper”, bearing the Pan Am blue meatball on their engine sections. All carried their own contingent of marines.

The sole Aurora class assigned to the fleet, in a gesture to Whitefeather's somewhat cracked sensibilities, was named the Arctic Princess. Its 96 pods, configured as barracks, would hold well over 1,500 Filles du Roi – all female, three under-18 concubines for every woman over that age, plus any and all dependants that the Filles had managed to acquire either through birth or adoption of orphaned relatives.

It would also hold special gifts for Thule's governor. Contemplating how many would be welcomed by Thule's governor and how many would make him scowl made General Michael Deschenes' old friend William Whitefeather smirk in anticipation.

On board the Arctic Princess, both Lyn and Sandy regarded the big Civil Service officer with amazement. Their coffees had grown cold, untouched as they sat enraptured by the fantastic tale he had just told. “You mean to tell me that right now, tonight, we are picking up ten thousand hockey players?”

Whitefeather nodded. “In some cases, we have a CAP-level parent with two kids playing, and in others we have a CAP-level parent with a CAP-level offspring who is playing, but it works out to a shade over ten thousand sponsors. And we're going from hockey rink to hockey rink to scoop them tonight. Right across the continent.” He turned to Sandy. “You're joining me. I promised you a big story, and I'm delivering.”